


never let me hit the ground

by akisazame



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians), Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Height Differences, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Questionable Use Of Telekinesis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:54:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28174983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akisazame/pseuds/akisazame
Summary: Eliot makes a show of blinking innocently as he waves his hand to send the pitcher safely back to the bar cart. "What else could you possibly mean, Quentin?""You are so fucking full of shit," Quentin says, a laugh bubbling out of him. "What I mean is." He reaches up, trailing his fingertips down Eliot's empty palm. "How much do you think you could lift? Like, theoretically."
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 20
Kudos: 156





	never let me hit the ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peacefrog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefrog/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY HOLLY!!!!! I made this pornography just for you.
> 
> thanks to [jessalae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae) and [hoko_onchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi/pseuds/hoko_onchi) for betaing and cheering me on. you are the two best smutmancers a girl could ask for. title from "Higher" by Carly Rae Jepsen.

It first comes up on a lazy Sunday afternoon in the cottage. Second semester has just started, so Quentin isn't riled up about coursework yet, which presents Eliot with easy opportunities to spoil his boyfriend rotten with a minimum of protestation. Not that it's difficult, really, to convince Quentin to spend hours in bed after they'd been separated over the two weeks of winter break, Eliot staying on campus while Quentin had gone home for quality time with his dad and Julia's family. (Quentin had invited Eliot to come along but, well. It had taken most of the semester for Eliot to admit that he had capital-F Feelings, so being introduced as The Boyfriend at a festive holiday gathering needed to wait until at least the Fourth of July. Or Thanksgiving. Or next Christmas. Or maybe never.) They'd talked on the phone a bit, but it simply wasn't the same as having Quentin beside him, or in his arms, or lying pliant under him. So after trading luxurious, indulgent morning blow jobs and dozing for another half hour or so, Eliot makes Quentin an elaborate brunch and early afternoon cocktails, and afterwards they curl together on the couch, Quentin's head in Eliot's lap, letting the hours slowly drift by.

Quentin is breathing softly, hovering on the edge of sleep again, and it would truly be a crime for Eliot to move him, but his glass has been empty for quite some time, which means that the little voice in the back of Eliot's mind is starting to spin up. _You don't deserve this,_ it whispers. _You're going to mess this up._ Quentin seems to think that isn't the case, but he can't ask Quentin for reassurance right now. So, alcohol. Thank god for magic.

Eliot tries to move subtly, calling the mimosa pitcher from where he'd left it on the bar cart and carefully floating it across the room until it's hovering right in front of him. He summons his glass next, a much easier affair since he'd only left it on the coffee table, just out of reach with Quentin pinning him down. He could grab both objects out of the air and refill his drink physically, but the motion might disturb Quentin. Besides, what's the point of having magic if you can't frivolously use it for mundane tasks? He twists one wrist, tipping the pitcher so it pours into the glass, then beckons the glass into his hand and takes a much-needed sip. Take that, little brain voice. Shut your metaphorical mouth or drown.

"You're so good at that," Quentin mumbles, mostly muffled by the fabric of Eliot's pants.

"I was trying not to wake you," Eliot whispers back apologetically.

"Wasn't sleeping," Quentin says. He rotates slightly on the couch, tilting his head to presumably to get a better vantage point on what Eliot is doing. "God, I could watch your hands for hours."

"You have," Eliot reminds him. It had been the Friday just before winter break, and Eliot had spent the whole night touching Quentin everywhere, all over his beautiful body, teasing him to the edge and back over and over again. "You were quite a fan, as I recall. Interested in a repeat performance?"

"No, I mean—" Quentin cuts himself off, frowning. "I mean, _yes,_ I do want that very much, Jesus, but." His eyes drift shut, just for a second; Eliot feels Quentin's body twitch as he remembers or imagines for himself. "What I mean _now_ is. Not that, really."

Eliot makes a show of blinking innocently as he waves his hand to send the pitcher safely back to the bar cart. "What else could you possibly mean, Quentin?"

"You are so fucking full of shit," Quentin says, a laugh bubbling out of him. "What I mean is." He reaches up, trailing his fingertips down Eliot's empty palm. "How much do you think you could lift? Like, theoretically."

 _Ooh._ "It's not theory, baby," Eliot says. He floats his glass back over to the table, then does a showy and mostly unnecessary gesture with both hands to levitate Quentin about an inch off the couch. He can't see Quentin's face anymore, but he hears his sharp intake of breath, a little scared but mostly delighted. "I've been telekinetic since I was fourteen. I've been testing my limits for _years._ "

Quentin is holding himself very still in the air, which Eliot takes as a sign that he should probably set the poor boy back down. He makes a little _oof_ sound as he lands back on the couch, which Eliot has to believe is mostly for show; he's always been _very_ careful when levitating his things. Safely on solid ground, Quentin wriggles around so that he's on his back, smiling wildly up at Eliot's face. Definitely not injured, then, and definitely not traumatized either. "So, um," he says, a blush already reddening his cheeks, "there's, uh. S-sexual applications for that."

God, Eliot cannot fucking deal with this boy, stammering over the word 'sex' when he was gagging on Eliot's cock maybe three hours ago, tops. "Mmm, fewer than you're hoping, I think," Eliot admits. Quentin's face falls, and Eliot hates that he was the one to make that happen, but it wouldn't do him any good to lie. He'd rather hurt Quentin's feelings now than hurt Quentin physically later. "Telekinesis is my discipline, so it's more instinctive than any other spell, but I still need to concentrate on the object or objects in question. And sex," he says, enunciating the word loud and clear just to make Quentin blush even more, "is a very distracting prospect, especially with such an attractive partner."

"Okay, you _know_ I don't agree with you about that," Quentin says, in the particular tone of voice that implies _but I'm tired of arguing about it so we'll let it slide._ "Could, uh. Could you levitate both of us? Just, like, a little bit?"

"Mmm, probably." Eliot ruffles his hand through Quentin's hair, his fingers catching on the small braid he'd made while Quentin had been dozing. "Though it kinda sounds like what you actually want is to be magically manhandled."

Somehow, Quentin's face manages to get even redder. "I mean, that's not _not_ what I want," he says, turning to hide his blush in the fabric of Eliot's shirt.

"There's plenty of ways I can do that," Eliot says, grinning wickedly even though Quentin can't see it. He does a tut and then reaches for both of Quentin's wrists, drawing them together and gripping them both in one hand. After a whispered word of Japanese, he lets go, leaving Quentin's arms suspended in place. "Midori's Partial Body-Bind," he murmurs, leaning down so Quentin can feel his breath on his skin. The muscles of Quentin's shoulders flex against Eliot's thigh as he tries to move and can't. "Does that satisfy your craving?"

"Different craving," Quentin says, eyes drifting closed as he relaxes into Eliot's lap, "but this is good too."

So, yeah, they get distracted, and Eliot forgets completely about the telekinetic lifting portion of the conversation until a week and a half later, when Quentin has Eliot backed up against the wall in Eliot's room and blurts out between kisses, "You could throw me onto the bed, right?"

It takes a moment for Eliot's synapses to reconnect, to work out what exactly Quentin is asking for, and he can't keep himself from laughing softly, nuzzling his cheek against Quentin's temple affectionately. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"I'm just saying," Quentin whines, headbutting Eliot's face to get his mouth back where he wants it, "if you've been _testing your limits for years_ —"

"I don't want to hurt you, baby," Eliot says, which is true in the simple, practical sense and also true in the resultant unearthing of childhood trauma sense. He wriggles a bit in Quentin's hold, but he's pinned down surprisingly thoroughly, to the point that Eliot wonders if Quentin isn't using a little telekinesis of his own.

Eliot's halfhearted struggling only seems to spur Quentin on, and he crowds up even further into Eliot's space, dragging his teeth over the pulse point in Eliot's neck. "C'mon, please?"

The truth is, despite his bravado, Eliot simply doesn't trust himself enough to telekinetically hurl Quentin clear across the room. Instead he gives a gentle yet firm push with his magic, hard enough that Quentin staggers a few steps backwards, then redirects the force so that Quentin hovers a couple of inches off the ground. "Such a demanding boy," Eliot says, affecting nonchalance as he walks in a slow circle around Quentin. When he completes his circuit, he reaches for Quentin's face, tracing a finger down the line of his jaw before tucking it under his chin, tilting Quentin's head so he can stare into his eyes. Quentin, unbelievably, looks even more turned on than he had before, despite the fact that Eliot still isn't giving him precisely what he'd asked for. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Anything you want," Quentin tells him, without a moment's hesitation.

Eliot hasn't cast a restraint spell, is only using his telekinesis to keep Quentin's feet off the ground, but Quentin is holding himself still anyway, arousal practically radiating from his skin. "Well, then," Eliot says, pressing his palm to Quentin's chest and slowly stepping forward, pushing Quentin through the air with both his arm and his magic until the backs of his legs hit the bed and he falls back, dazed, "I'll have to show you a good time, won't I?"

Naturally, Eliot shows Quentin a _very_ good time. What kind of boyfriend would he be if he didn't?

The second semester winds on and, contrary to popular belief, Eliot does, in fact, attend classes. Sure, his schedule is a bit more freeform than the faculty suggests, and he has yet to encounter a due date that couldn't be creatively manipulated, but he's not a complete layabout. Besides, if Eliot spent all day lazing around the cottage, it would be much more effort on his part to casually and coincidentally run into Quentin between classes and gallantly offer to escort him, which of course provides Eliot the opportunity to showily kiss Quentin in front of Professor March's entire first year Practical Applications class.

As it happens, this is exactly what Eliot had spent his entire Alchemy lecture planning to do. What he hadn't expected was that Quentin would intercept him first, immediately outside of Professor Brzezinski's classroom, by grabbing a fistful of Eliot's shirt and tie and dragging him bodily down the hall.

"Well, hello," Eliot says, trying to sound casual when he is, in fact, a roughly equal combination of shocked, delighted, and instantly turned on. "Where did you come from?"

Quentin doesn't answer, though his fist does tighten and twist a bit in Eliot's shirt, making the fabric strain, which Eliot might normally care about if this whole situation weren't so ridiculously hot. They turn a corner in the hallway, Quentin marching determinedly forward until they reach a nondescript door at the far end, which Quentin opens with his other hand so he can shove Eliot inside. The room is dark, and darker still when Quentin closes the door behind them.

"Quentin, what—" is all Eliot manages to get out before Quentin is _on him,_ pulling down on Eliot's tie so that he can lock their lips together in a greedy, openmouthed kiss. Eliot's so startled that he barely knows how to respond, letting Quentin take what he's demanding, his tongue in Eliot's mouth, his teeth against Eliot's lips. It's far from the first time that Eliot has seen Quentin desperate like this, but it is the first time that it's happened without Eliot's calculated input.

They kiss for several long minutes in the total darkness of the room Quentin's dragged them into; Quentin's hand eventually moves from Eliot's poor abused shirt so he can hook his entire arm around Eliot's neck, while his other hand grips hard on Eliot's hip, pressing their bodies flush together. He has such a tight hold on Eliot that, in addition to the darkness and the fizzing whirl of arousal, it keeps Eliot from getting any sense of exactly where they are. Quentin is subtly rolling his body against Eliot's, his erection pressing into Eliot's thigh while Eliot's presses into Quentin's stomach, and eventually the building pressure gets to be too much and Eliot has to break away.

"Quentin, Quentin," he pants, breathless, sounding ridiculously far gone considering that all they've done is kiss. "D-don't get me wrong, this is stupidly sexy, but— where the fuck are we?"

"Janitor's closet," Quentin says, just as breathlessly, dragging Eliot down even further to nip at his jaw.

Eliot, for his part, had no idea that Brakebills employed janitors, let alone that they had their own closets. Wouldn't the faculty just use magic for those sorts of things? But he's certainly not _complaining_ about it, not with the way Quentin has moved his hand from Eliot's hip so that he can blatantly feel Eliot up through his pants. He groans into Quentin's hair, lips brushing the shell of Quentin's ear. "Is the darkness a required feature of our little rendezvous, or can I cast a spell?"

" _God,_ " Quentin whines, like this is somehow the hottest question he's ever been asked, " _please_ cast a spell."

Jesus, okay. It takes Eliot a second to remember an illumination spell that he can cast while getting aggressively assaulted, but he finally manages to conjure a ball of gentle orange light that he tosses up overhead. The first thing that Eliot is able to focus on is Quentin's face, still hovering very close to his own, eyes wide and dark and hungry-looking as he stares up at Eliot before closing the gap between their mouths again. He closes his eyes instinctually, the loss of one sense heightening the feel and taste of Quentin's enthusiastic kisses, but manages to open them again after a few moments to finally take in the landscape of the room.

And— it's totally empty.

"Q," Eliot manages to say in the breath between one kiss and the next. He almost loses the thread of his thought when Quentin whines into his mouth, his knee rubbing against Eliot's thigh as though he could climb Eliot like a tree. "N-not that I don't believe you," Eliot gasps out once they break for air again. The sentence fragment makes Quentin draw back a little, staring up at Eliot with a combination of expectation and impatience. "If this is a janitor's closet, shouldn't there be, uh. Janitor things in it?"

Quentin rolls his eyes emphatically, as if to say _seriously? you interrupted our deliriously hot makeout session for this?_ "Twoflower's Bottomless Luggage," he says, voice gone gravelly with desire in the exact way that makes Eliot's skin prickle all over. "I had to make room. So you didn't—" Eliot has no idea when Quentin managed to get his slacks open, but his hand is definitely sliding into Eliot's pants and wrapping tight around his dick, holy _shit_ — "get any ideas."

"And what exactly—" Eliot's voice is high and reedy to his own ears; Quentin's hand starts moving, slow and slick, and when the hell did Quentin cast that lube spell? Unless he's just that wet from some heavy petting and making out which, yeah, okay, maybe. "What exactly am I not supposed to get ideas about?"

Quentin's other arm has been around Eliot's neck this whole time, but he moves it now, sliding his palm all the way down Eliot's arm until he reaches the wrist, moving it from where it's been hovering uselessly since casting the light spell so that Eliot's palm rests firmly against Quentin's ass. "I want you to fuck me," Quentin says, as though his blatant hand-on-ass message was somehow unclear. Eliot glances around, one valiant brain cell trying to piece together logistics, but his eyes catch on Quentin's, staring up at him as he adds, "Up against this wall, with telekinesis."

Eliot's first thought is: wow, okay, the tree-climbing maneuver makes a little more sense in context. His second thought is: Jesus Christ, this is _so fucking hot._

His third thought is the one that comes out of his mouth. "You found the one place on campus where I'd have to lift you up to fuck you."

" _Eliot,_ " Quentin whines, letting go of both Eliot's wrist and Eliot's dick so that he can use both hands to shove ineffectually at Eliot's waistband. " _Please._ "

The tone of Quentin's voice short circuits Eliot's brain, and he takes one step forward to press Quentin up against the opposite wall of the closet. The space is _tiny,_ barely enough room for a person to sit down in comfortably; Quentin can't have had to take very much out to store in his Luggage spell. "Did you spend all of Professor March's lecture thinking about this?" he croons, leaning down to breathe into Quentin's ear. "Thinking about how much you wanted me to push you around?"

"N-no," Quentin says, eyes fluttering closed in that enraptured way they always do when Eliot gives him exactly what he's most craving. "No, I— I skipped class."

"Oh, naughty boy." Eliot grins lasciviously as he undoes the button and zipper on Quentin's jeans, then slides both hands under his boxers to grab at his ass. "You played hooky to set all this up then, hmm? To empty out a closet that's just the right size for me to fuck you the way you want?"

Quentin rolls his hips, pushing back deliciously into Eliot's palms. "I couldn't stop thinking about it," he whimpers, breath hot against Eliot's neck. "Ever since that day you levitated me in the common room, I've been trying to figure out how to get you to—"

"Fuck you clear off the ground?" Quentin nods emphatically, his face pressed tightly against Eliot's shoulder, and Eliot can't stop himself from laughing soundlessly, amused and amazed. "You are absolutely fucking unreal, you know that?"

" _You_ are," Quentin counters, so sincere that it makes Eliot's heart burst with affection. "Please, I want—"

"I know what you want," Eliot says, because he does. He's become a veritable scholar of the art of pleasuring Quentin, in the hopes that he'll get to use that knowledge for a long, long time. It's how he can tell that Quentin is far too worked up right now to be patient through the sort of foreplay that Eliot usually prefers. Still— he draws back and traces his fingertips over Quentin's lips. "Are you sure you don't want to suck me off a little first?"

Quentin eagerly takes two of Eliot's fingers into his mouth, making a pleased little noise when Eliot curls them against his tongue, but then pulls back and shakes his head. "I mean, I _do,_ but. We can do that later? I wasn't, uh. Really thinking about kneeling on the floor in here." He glances down, then back up at Eliot, eyes brightening. "Unless you think you could—?"

Eliot's laugh isn't soundless this time. "I'm certainly not going to levitate _myself_ just so you can give me a blow job without hurting your delicate knees."

"Well, it was worth a try," Quentin says, grinning and maybe blushing. It's hard to tell in the orange glow of Eliot's magic orb, but the body of past evidence would suggest that he is. Eliot doesn't get much time to examine, because Quentin is surging up again, kissing him deeply, dragging his teeth over Eliot's lower lip as he pulls away. "Stop getting sidetracked and fuck me."

Jesus. "Stop being so distractible then," Eliot tells him, teasing, groping Quentin's ass again before sliding his hands up so he can finally get Quentin's jeans off, with Quentin helpfully toeing out of his shoes so he can kick everything into the corner of the closet. Eliot's learned the hard way that, if given the opportunity, Quentin will always find a way to get tangled up in his own clothes. He steps in close afterwards, forcing Quentin's legs apart, pushing him firmly against the wall. "Cast any spells on yourself already, baby?"

"I, um, thought about it," Quentin says, obviously embarrassed despite how absolutely fucking shameless this entire situation is. "B-but I. I wanted you to do it."

The way that Quentin says it, voice woven with desire, reconfigures Eliot's entire understanding of what's happening here. It's not just about Eliot railing Quentin up against a wall, it's— "You want to feel my magic?" he asks, soft and sinuous. "Want to feel it open you up? Want to feel it hold you?"

" _Yes,_ " Quentin gasps. "Yes, yes, El, please—"

Eliot puts his right hand on Quentin's hip, holding him against the wall while he runs through tuts for the usual suite of sex spells with his left. Quentin watches Eliot's hand the whole time with the same sort of ravenous hunger he usually reserves for looking at Eliot's dick, right up until the sensation of the prep spell makes him shut his eyes, hips twitching involuntarily. Eliot has never liked the way that spell feels when it's been cast on him, but Quentin _loves_ it, and now Eliot thinks he has a better idea of why. "You ready?"

Quentin writhes in Eliot's hold again, his dick twitching where it's pressed into Eliot's leg. "You know I am, you just did the—"

"I meant," Eliot says, magic tingling on his skin like electricity, before deciding to forego the rest of the sentence entirely, gripping both of Quentin's hips as he lifts him, partly with his arms but mostly with telekinesis, up against the wall. It's not much of a strain, doing it like this, with the wall taking a good amount of Quentin's weight. Quentin wraps his legs around Eliot's waist and his arms around Eliot's neck, clinging tightly, as though there's nothing anchoring him other than Eliot's body and the force of his magic.

" _God,_ " Quentin gasps, pressing his face under Eliot's jaw, breathing so hard and hot that Eliot can feel it through the shirt he'd never bothered to take off. "God, Eliot, it's— it feels like—"

"Yeah?" Eliot moves in closer, shifting subtly until the head of his cock is pressed to Quentin's entrance. "Tell me what it feels like, baby."

Quentin's whole body is trembling, buzzing under Eliot's hands and against the force of his magic. "Like you're touching me _everywhere._ " A laugh spills out of his mouth, elation bubbling over. "El, I swear to god if you don't get your dick inside me right now—"

"How could I say no," Eliot says, pushing inside, where Quentin is tight and slick and— god, just perfect, "when you beg so prettily?"

Quentin makes a punched-out sound, biting down on the fabric of Eliot's shirt. Unsalvageable, probably, but a shirt is a small price to pay for the way Quentin's clenching around his cock. "You said no before," Quentin insists, his words punctuated by irregular breaths as Eliot drives into him.

"I told you why." Eliot feels dizzy with arousal and the incongruity of their conversation, the way that the words he's saying want to come out of his mouth laced with tenderness even as he's fucking Quentin senseless against a wall in a goddamn janitor's closet. "I don't ever want to hurt you. But you—" He takes one hand from Quentin's hips and moves it up to his arms, pulling them free from around Eliot's neck and raising them up over Quentin's head, giving him one fewer solid anchor point and letting magic sweep in to take its place. "You clever, naughty boy. You know how to get exactly what you want out of me."

"Then you should— _fuck, El—_ you should m-make me come— please, _please,_ touch—"

Despite Quentin's words, Eliot barely has time to get his hand around Quentin's dick before he's coming, hard and messy, all over Eliot's definitely-ruined-forever shirt. It's almost enough to send Eliot over the edge himself, but he holds back, losing himself in the feeling of Quentin, soft and pliant under his hands. Quentin's babbling nonsense now, a stream of _yes_ and _fuck_ and _please_ and _El, El, Eliot,_ and as much as Eliot doesn't want this to end, he can't deny either Quentin or himself much longer.

Quentin's hands haven't moved from where Eliot left them above his head. "Hold on to me, Q, I don't know if I'll—"

"I trust you," Quentin says, and Eliot _believes_ him, not just in this but in everything, always. "You won't, you'd never, I—"

Whatever Quentin was about to say is smothered by the strangled sounds both of them make when Eliot buries himself deep in Quentin and comes, biting at Quentin's jaw and crushing him against the wall with the force of it.

Sharing a mindblowing orgasm with Quentin is a blessedly common occurrence. What Eliot doesn't expect, in the euphoric drift of his come down, is the feeling of his feet landing back on the floor. Jesus. Maybe Quentin won't notice.

"Were you levitating yourself when you came?" Quentin murmurs into Eliot's shirt.

Okay, so much for that. "Apparently so."

"Mmm." Quentin rubs his face against Eliot's shoulder before looking up at him, dazed but smiling. "That's so fucking hot, El."

Eliot laughs, pressing a kiss to Quentin's perfect mouth before starting the process of disentangling the two of them in this tiny, uncomfortable room. "I shouldn't be surprised that you're hot for magic."

Quentin, whose feet are now also safely on the floor again, glares at him. "What? No I'm not."

"You so are. You just about creamed yourself when I cast that light spell."

"I _did not._ "

"It's okay," Eliot tells him. "You're sexy when you're horny. Now tell me, what exactly was your post-coital plan for this little rendezvous?"

"Um," Quentin says, eyes darting around the room like he's just seeing it for the first time. Eliot's still got him mostly pinned to the wall, but it's more of an exhausted lean than a proper cuddle. "I wasn't. Really thinking of that, I guess? We should, uh. Go back to the cottage, probably. Since clearly neither of us are going to class." He ducks his head, blushes. Ridiculous. Eliot likes him a truly unbearable amount. "Maybe do some more levitation experiments."

Before Quentin can pull away to retrieve his clothes from the floor, Eliot catches him in his arms and hugs him close, leaning down to press their foreheads together. "Baby, I've got lots more limits I would love to test with you."

**Author's Note:**

> for additional yelling/crying about perfect boyfriends quentin coldwater and eliot waugh, you can follow me on [tumblr](http://akisazame.tumblr.com).


End file.
